


Score After the Game

by Blake



Series: Tolkien High School Fics [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Community College, M/M, Marching Band, everyone's 18, fucking in a truck, just boyfriends being disgusting and cute, you all are so lucky I didn't make an embouchure joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Being in love with a marching band geek means going to Friday night football games.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Tolkien High School Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881472
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85





	Score After the Game

**Author's Note:**

> [skepticalfrog drew this lifechangingly cute art of Thorin mooning over Bilbo in his marching band uniform](https://skepticalfrog.tumblr.com/post/626013131918999552/i-just-read-newleafover-s-high-school-fic-and-am#notes) and I just couldn't stop thinking about it! So this happened. Thank you to everyone who reads these silly high school adventures of mine!

Before Bilbo Baggins, Thorin had never been to a football game in his life. He avoided them like the plague, imagining them to be the epitome of everything he loathed about high school: toxic masculinity, capitalist indoctrination, refracted patriotism, and garbage music.

But then he fell in love with a soprano sax player, and spending every possible minute of every possible day with a soprano sax player meant attending Friday night football games to sit in the bleachers and cheer on the marching band. The _atrocious_ marching band. Because, as it turns out, everything Thorin imagined about football games is true, including the garbage music.

“You sounded beautiful,” Thorin tells Bilbo admiringly. He can’t bite back his smile as he watches Bilbo take a seat, cheeks red from the exertion of a ten-minute halftime show and the cold autumn air. Once Bilbo is seated, Thorin ducks in for a kiss to the side of his neck, the sweet patch of skin between his soft jaw and the crisp collar of his marching band uniform. Once he gets the kiss out of his system, he pulls back and scowls. “But the percussion section can’t even count to four. _You_ were doing more to keep the rhythm going than the bass drums were.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo’s smile is a bit pinched as he looks up at him, patting his thigh. The heat of his palm through the hole in his jeans makes Thorin smile again. “Thank you for your critique, but please allow me to say this: I do not care if this marching band is the worst marching band in the world. The football season is almost over, and then I won’t have to wear this hideous uniform ever again. Aside from a couple of parades in the spring, of course, but that’s a horse of a different color.”

“I like your uniform,” Thorin protests, grabbing Bilbo’s hand and pushing his thumbs up under the stiff cuff of his sleeve. He touches the soft skin of his wrist and rubs the fine hairs against the grain. He instantly feels calmer, despite the loud, quasi-patriotic shouts filling the night.

Apparently the shouts mean something about the game, because Bilbo abruptly picks the small saxophone off his lap and starts playing a fight song with the rest of the band. Thorin doesn’t cover his ears, but he arranges his hair in such a way that it blocks some of the sound.

When the song ends, Bilbo is panting again. Thorin resists the urge to kiss the cold white of his exhales right off his lips. He’s not entirely sure what Bilbo’s limits on PDA are in these situations, and he’s always afraid of trampling over them like an asshole. It’s not that they haven’t had _conversations_ about it. They have had plenty. But ever since Thorin graduated in June, it’s as if a switch has been flipped in his brain; where he once had some intrinsic understanding of what was socially acceptable in a high school setting, he now has complete disregard for the whole thing. Which isn’t fair, because his boyfriend still has six months, two weeks, and zero days left of it.

Bilbo twists his mouth the way he does when he’s displeased. Thorin suspects he’s not as anesthetized to the awfulness of the marching band as he pretends to be. “Aren’t you just so glad, Thorin, that you turned down your admission to Stanford University so that you could sit here, on the cold bleachers, in forty-degree weather, listening to freshman trumpet players playing Bs instead of B-flats?”

Thorin is, in fact, very glad. He’s grateful every day that he fell in love with Bilbo just in time for it to help him realize that Stanford wasn’t what he wanted in life. It was what his father wanted, and his whole family, really, and Thorin would probably have just _gone_ and been miserable, if he hadn’t met someone last year who made him realize he didn’t _have_ to do what was expected of him. He could attend community college, take classes he was interested in, save his tuition money for his cousins, and build something new and beautiful with Bilbo Baggins, who he is pretty sure is the love of his life.

But he refrains from making a speech of it. Bilbo likes having his space to bitch about things without Thorin overriding him with sappiness. “I thought the clarinets didn’t sound so bad,” he says, looking at the way the chin strap of Bilbo’s hat digs into the softness of his chin, and longing to kiss him there.

Bilbo cuts a dubious look his way. After a second, it softens into a genuine smile. He puts his hand on Thorin’s thigh again. All is right with the world.

“There are two strong clarinetists,” Bilbo admits. He points the mouthpiece of his saxophone toward a couple of curly-haired freshmen who are currently cuddled quite close. The black-haired one is resting his head on the copper-haired one’s shoulder. Thorin instantly finds them both relatable and adorable. “Gay love makes good music,” Bilbo whispers. “Ah, young love. They have it so easy.”

Given that Bilbo turned eighteen a mere three months ago, this strikes Thorin as a bit ridiculous. He snorts and wraps an arm low across Bilbo’s back to hold onto his hip. “Well, I bet neither of them has a truck to drive the other one home in after the game. That kind of sucks, don’t you think?”

Bilbo nuzzles closer, fitting his face against Thorin’s shoulder. The feather in his cap threatens to tickle Thorin’s nose, but it’s worth it. “Thank you for always being my ride home,” Bilbo hums.

“Always,” Thorin says.

But when the game is over, Thorin doesn’t want to drive them home. He wants to suck Bilbo off in his marching band uniform.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo hisses at him, while leading him down under the now-empty bleachers. “This is school property.”

“We could do it in my truck.” Thorin tries to make a humorous facial expression, but he’s pretty sure his desperation to strike a compromise shows in his voice.

“I meant the uniform. It’s school property.” Bilbo has started dragging him in a direct route to the parking lot, and away from the band room, where he usually changes clothes. Thorin takes it as a good sign. “It probably hasn’t been dry-cleaned in three years.”

“We could give them a reason to dry-clean it,” Thorin suggests, already getting pathetically turned on just from the firm grip of Bilbo’s small hand pulling him confidently in the direction of the truck. Thorin is so lost to the sensation that he can’t even remember where he parked, but it’s okay, because Bilbo _does_ remember, and his competence only adds to the sensation. It’s the best kind of feedback loop.

“That is absolutely disgusting,” Bilbo says. Thorin’s heart stutters when his pocket is suddenly invaded by Bilbo’s hand sliding in for his keys. The touch is so close and intimate, just cotton between his fingers and Thorin’s hip. “Where do you get these filthy ideas, anyways?” Bilbo unlocks the truck and pushes Thorin in through the passenger’s side door, both hands lingering heavily on his ass.

Bilbo makes a move to shut the door and run around to the other side of the truck, but Thorin stops him with a finger under his chin strap. “From looking at you,” he answers. The cab of the truck sits pretty high, so he has to bend down to kiss those pursed, unimpressed lips. The kiss turns into kissing. The kissing turns into making out. The making out leads to groping. Thorin suddenly doesn’t like Bilbo’s uniform anymore now that he’s struggling to find skin under the inch-thick, tightly fastened fabric.

Apparently rethinking his plan to run around the truck to the driver’s side, Bilbo steps up on the door of the cab and lets Thorin hoist him up to deposit him in the middle of the bench seat.

From there, it promises to be straightforward. The zipper is easy enough. So is the zipper of the second layer of trousers underneath. Thorin groans smugly to himself when he gets his hand under Bilbo’s boxers.

But the pants are so tight around Bilbo’s hips that he has to pull them down for Thorin to have a chance at getting a good angle with his mouth. In order to pull them down, he has to take off the suspenders. In order to take off the suspenders, he has to remove his entire many-buttoned jacket.

When Thorin finally gets to suck him off in his marching band uniform, the only remaining piece of it still in place is his hat. Thorin doesn’t mind; he gets to touch Bilbo’s skin under his cotton t-shirt.

Bilbo takes the hat off after he has come and is sliding deeper into the seat, sated and radiating heat. Thorin wipes the corner of his mouth with one hand and wipes his other hand on a napkin before buttoning his jeans up again.

“Now that I’m undressed,” Bilbo says, waving limply up at the ceiling, “I’m not exactly decent enough to walk back to the band room to return my uniform, am I?”

Thorin rolls his eyes affectionately. He rises on his knees to kiss Bilbo’s lips and starts to collect pieces of the uniform. He would run a thousand meaningless errands for Bilbo.

“What will they all think of me,” Bilbo asks, tilting his chin to watch Thorin climbing out of the truck, “When they see a stunning, ruggedly handsome college student returning my sweaty clothes on my behalf?”

Thorin presses a kiss to the side of Bilbo’s ankle. “I know what they’ll think of _me_.” He slips the black, shiny shoes from Bilbo’s feet and bundles up the whole uniform under his arm.

“What’s that?”

“That I’m terribly, terribly in love with you.”

“Enough to carry my sweaty shoes all that way?”

Thorin nods. “Enough to come to football games.”

Suddenly very serious, Bilbo sits up, his t-shirt riding up his tummy a little bit, his stretched-out boxers looking rumpled and debauched. “I love you, too,” he whispers, and then he kisses Thorin’s cheek.


End file.
